


my father wasn't there

by allucinoctis



Category: The Odyssey - Homer
Genre: Absent Parents, Angst, Coming of Age, Daddy Issues, Gen, Personal Growth, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allucinoctis/pseuds/allucinoctis
Summary: in ancient greece, growing up without a father was the same as growing up an orphan.
Relationships: Odysseus/Penelope, Odysseus/Penelope (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	my father wasn't there

My father wasn’t there.

The first instance I became aware of this was my very first memory. I couldn’t have been more than three or four years old, and my mother never failed to remind me that my first word was μητέρα, rather than πατέρας. The palace halls had long since been my playground, and I had begun my exploration of the labyrinth as soon as my legs could carry me. This time, my legs carried me towards a distinct, sharp cry. It was hauntingly familiar – even my infant ears recognised who it was from. The door was left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in. The cries increased in fervour and sorrow, so pitiful I couldn’t make out the words. Young me toddled towards the source of the cries, with a childlike curiosity. The figure glanced up, having had their head in their hands, their eyelids cracking open. The recognition that sparked in her eyes was unforgettable.

 _Telemachus,_ she gasped. _Oh, my dear grandson._ She quickly scooped me up into her arms, my shoulder now becoming the sponge of her tears. Her breaths were shallow in between her sobs. _If only your father was here._ An overwhelming sadness settled in my chest, burrowing itself deep in my heart, the same way a farmer ploughs seeds into the earth for next year’s harvest.

The same way a farmer tries avoiding the Trojan War.

That was also the first time I saw a woman cry.

My mother had been a tad stronger, holding out faith for her husband. She never ceased to retell his heroic deeds, stories spouting from her like a relentless fountain, determined for me to see him as every bit of the saint that she did. Some children fall asleep to the story of bright-eyed Athene emerging from Zeus’ brain, I fell asleep to the story of quick-witted Odysseus sneaking thousands of Achaeans into Troy. _He was a force to be reckoned with,_ she would wistfully smile, her eyes refocusing onto me. I was mesmerised – who wouldn’t be, hearing their father was one of the greatest Greek warriors, and completely mortal, unlike Achilles. _If only he was here right now._

I was quick to associate my father with both valour and sorrow.

Then came the second time I realised my father wasn’t there.

I was ten by the time I was rushing alongside my mother to greet the countless ships approaching our shore. Soldiers poured from each one, mighty military leaders boasting about the exploits from Troy. My mother had gushed that my father could be on any one of those ships, finally returning to his hearth and home. My eyes scrutinised each passing warrior, hoping against all hope one of them was the cunning Odysseus. I scanned for the sharp jaw and knowing smirk that my mother would describe, for the fierce eyes and dark curls that my grandmother would swear that I inherited. All the features I gazed upon in the mirror.

After welcoming and feeding them all, my mother shot rapid-fire questions. _I can’t believe Menelaus dragged him all that way._ _Where is he? Did he not return with his crew?_ Her eyes shone – with tears or hope, I couldn’t quite tell.

They skirted around the questions. They rambled about Achilles’ brilliance in battle and Menelaus effortlessly beating Paris. Once they reached the tales of intelligent Odysseus, my mother held her breath. They sang his praises, insisting he saved them another decade of fighting with his _ingenious plan_. He truly was blessed by Pallas Athene, favoured by Zeus, Gatherer of Clouds. This was why they were convinced he couldn’t be dead – he left just as satisfied and as victorious as the others did. Their voices went from loud and thundering, to hushed and slowed. It felt like my father’s funeral already. They avoided eye contact, mumbling something about no one knowing the whereabouts of the great Odysseus. One of them cleared his throat, voice rising above the table. _At least he left you a son._

All eyes fell onto me. I was seated next my mother, and I clutched her arm the way my grandmother clutched me all those years ago. _A son to defend you, manage the estate. Perhaps handle your dower again when the time comes._ I note they didn’t say _if_. The older men looked at me, with a knowing glint in their eyes. _You would be proud of him. You **should** be proud of him._

Would he be proud of me?

I felt those farmers’ seeds of sadness quickly germinate.

The royal family of Ithaca were allowed a few years of silence before we received any visitors again. My days of scanning the shores for ships potentially containing my father dwindled. My grandfather would occasionally visit, kissing my forehead and marvelling at my growth. _He truly is Odysseus’ son, and my grandson_. My mother would always glow with pride, her cheeks flushing. I was the last piece she had left of her beloved husband, proof of her marriage and holy union to the brave hero. All that distance apart and he still dominated each of her thoughts. They were married barely a year before he had to fight in the ultimate battle that unified all of the Argives. She can’t imagine these palace halls without him. How tragic to say I can’t imagine him at all.

Not to say I haven’t tried. I envision him stepping onto our shore, heaving in the salty air of rugged Ithaca. His worn sandals would trudge through the sand. He would approach the palace walls, the same palace his father ruled, and his father before him. He would march into the great hall, his strong voice soaring above the ceiling. There’d be no need for introductions – he would instantly recognise me and I him. He would see the resemblance in the sharp eyes and tousled curls, and his face would break out into the brightest smile. I would thrust my arms around his neck, and weep. Weep for all the years of absence, weep for the all the pain the women in my life had endured, weep for the kindhearted master Eumaeus had missed. Depending on my age, we would spend time together. Had I been a child, he would bounce me on his knee and laugh at my mother’s tales. Had I been an adolescent blossoming into adulthood, we would hunt together and he would admire the way I struck down a deer with his legendary bow.

There’s a vicious stab where my heart should be.

The day the insolent vultures arrived was the third time I realised my father wasn’t there.

The first few weren’t all that abhorrent. I had just turned thirteen, and was spending the day in the loyal swineherd’s hut, which was quickly becoming my second home. The sails of their ships billowed in the wind as they descended on our shores. Their honeyed words flew, trying to snare my mother in their sweetness. They would drop sweets of a similar sugary nature into my palm, patting my head of thick curls. However, they were too sticky in my mouth, leaving a bitter aftertaste of deceit. A few quickly became over a hundred, and they also quickly became abhorrent. They ate the palace out of house and home, desecrating Odysseus’ halls, eating Odysseus’ swine, latching onto Odysseus’ wife. His absence seemed to fuel their disrespectful fire, and I felt my mother’s unrelenting frustration. The fiasco of Laertes’ shroud came and went; a testimony to my mother who was every bit as resourceful as her husband.

It was also around this time my grandmother died. Her heartstrings couldn’t bare his absence, pained by all these men who thought they could take her son’s place. The black hands of Death reclaimed her soul. We all prayed Hades would be kinder to her than life was. Her wails still pierce my ears.

My father wasn’t there to defend his oikos. He wasn’t there to show the same ferocity he showed the Trojans, to honour his son and prevent his mother’s death. He wasn’t there to banish the Suitors, to shield my mother from their roving gazes. He wasn’t there to teach me how to string his bow, to teach me how to win in a swordfight.

The seeds now force their way through the soil, sucking in all the surrounding nutrients.

The Suitors’ smarminess had left almost as fast as Odysseus did. Ithaca is now their home. Odysseus’ property has now become theirs, and I’m left to wallow in the corner. I swear to myself that I would never make my mother or future wife suffer as much as Odysseus has. Damned be my name and legacy if leave to fight in some silly old war.

When a stranger arrives with news of Odysseus, xenia leads me to welcome and listen to them. His winged words nudge the miniscule amount of hope I have left. The winds of fate demand that I travel to Pylos and Sparta, where the infamous war began. _Time to gain your own kleos_ , Mentor gruffly says. _You are not a child anymore._

My beard is starting to grow through now. My father isn’t here to see it.


End file.
